


Wounds

by Talullah



Series: Westernesse [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 21:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12590456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: Oromendil visits his cousin Mairen, whom he barely knows.





	Wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhapsody the Bard (Rhapsody)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhapsody/gifts).



> This was written for Rhapsody, who asked for Hallelujah or Suzanne when I offered to write something inspired by Leonard Cohen’s songs on the occasion of his death.
> 
> For those who may not have the Númenorian royal family tree at hand, Mairen is Tar-Elendil’s youngest sister and Oromendil’s first cousin. Both are great-grandchildren of Elros Tar-Minyatur. Oromendil (devoted to Oromë) has an older sister, Yávien, whom I’ve made to be a traveller, after [Himring](https://archiveofourown.org/series/525097) and who is very close in age to Mairen, a younger brother, Axantur, who will be the great-grandfather of Tar-Ancalimë’s father (this note will make sense by the end of this piece and when reference is made to Hyarastorni and shepherding).
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Rómenna, Second Age 591**

Oromendil walked through the narrow streets of the fishermen’s quarter, carefully avoiding the fish entrails, broken lines, rusted hooks and all the other debris of daily life of a community of fishers. Apart from a few noble houses, Rómenna was a cesspool, poor and dirty. The houses were small, the snotty, barefoot children were many, and the parents were loud and uncultured.

It was not that he despised them, he told himself, watching as yet another woman wrapped in a black shawl touched Mairen’s arm, as if asking for blessings. His cousin smiled and said something in the atrocious local accent.

Oromendil tried to be kind in his thoughts: in truth, for a lord of Rómenna, perhaps the shepherds of Hyarastorni were no less dirty and poor, he told himself… but no, they were not. For decades and decades his father, Nolondil, had worked hard to improve life conditions and had even, to the great shock of many of their neighbours, had even forced the shepherds to send their children to the schools he built, under threat of terminating their lease on the lands.

He hadn’t travelled much in his life. Apart from yearly visits to Armenelos, for the Eruhantalë, he barely left home, even though his uncle Tar Amandil sent warm invitations for every Erulaitalë and Erukyermë. Summer and spring were just too busy at the farm and their father only dispensed Yávien at those times.

And here he was in Rómenna, where there was nothing to be seen, on an errand for Yávien. He had gone to Armenelos at his father’s bidding, to talk with a weaver. They had tried before to convince her to work for them because from her spindles and looms came the finest wool cloth of the whole island, but she was tough to bargain with.

Yávien, who had spent most of the winter in bed with a worrying cold, had asked him to visit Mairen in Rómenna, and take her a few letters, books, and a bag of trinkets. Now he followed her, several steps behind, cursing under his breath whenever he stumbled and she chuckled in response.

His cousin’s house was near the river, if the creek that carried all the filth of Rómenna to the sea could be called that. He could see it now, over her shoulder, as they left behind the narrow streets and their boisterous inhabitants.

Mairen inhaled deeply, outstretching her arms, as if she was going to burst out in dance at any moment. Oromendil wondered if the rumours were true, if she was half crazy. Her gown was of the finest Andustar silk, as befitting the daughter and sister of kings, but there was something slightly sloven about her appearance. Maybe it was the loose hair, or perhaps the slightly fraying hem, or how she walked through the village alone, carrying a basket on her arm, as if she was a woman of the people.

At 214 she was a woman in full bloom, but yet there was something girlish about her. Except for Yávien, who kept in touch with Mairen by letter and through her many travels around the island, Nolondil’s family had not kept close ties, isolated in the farm and carrying other interests. Oromendil did remember a few blessed summers when their grandfather would drag them all to the cool shade of the forests of Forostar and even the oldest grandchildren would roll down the hills, their bellies and mouths hurting from laughter.

Mairen called him. “Cousin, look here!”

She slowed her stride, occasionally looking back at him, while she lead him down a path full of weeds. It lead down to the creek’s bed, which had only a trickle of water in the middle and a few puddles here and there, amidst the rocks and the sand. It reeked of low tide and Oromendil suspected that the sea reached it in high tide.

Mairen stopped in front of a large bolder, taller than her, that seemed to have been placed there, on the right margin. It was from a reddish type of rock, different from the compact basalt grey of the smaller rocks. The vegetation around it was immaculately trimmed and there were several flower bouquets and a few trinkets made of seashells. Mairen touched her hand to her lips and bowed her head.

“What is this, cousin?” he asked.

Mairen did not reply immediately. “It is a shrine of a sort, I suppose.” She stepped back and looked at the rock, clearly enjoying its strange beauty in the golden afternoon light.

“Our Lady of the Harbour, they call her, the Lady Uinen. The legend says that this rock was washed ashore a long time ago, when people first settled here. A terrible storm caught the men out on the sea and the women and children spent the night kneeling and praying to the Lady Uinen until the break of dawn. All the men returned and, when they headed back home taking the path from the beach through the mouth of the creek, here it was.”

Mairen smiled. “Superstition, you will tell me...”

Oromendil hesitated. “You pay your respect..”

“I do. The Lady has been kind to me.”

Oromendil followed Mairen, as she started walking again. Something in the way she had spoken suggested that her relationship with Uinen was personal, tangible. He shook the idea. The gods were back in the west and his cousin was, perhaps, a little unhinged or maybe she was making fun of him in a very subtle way.

They climbed the four steps to her door. She opened the door to her house herself and, inside, there were no signs of help. He had heard rumours about her strange ways but Yávien had only told him ‘She is free, brother, truly free.’ But then again was Yávien, coming and going as she wished, travelling the land with barely an escort. Improper women ran in the family and he was not too displeased.

Mairen’s house was small and he liked it. There was a succession of windows on the eastern wall, looking out to the bay. He could imagine her watching the sunrise with a mug of a tisane warming her hands. A large hearth dominated the opposite wall, sided with bookcases. There were so many books, maps, shells, dried flowers and even an immense pair of ram horns. 

Seeing where his eyes had stopped, she said it was a joke between her and Yávien, who had sent them as a gift. The mischievous smile crinkling her eyes made him wander what secrets his sister shared with Mairen. He had friends, good and close friends, starting with his brother and his father, but their friendship was simple and direct, whereas theirs, from what little Yávien transpired, was layered and secretive, in a way.

Mairen heeled her shoes off and pointed at a chair. “Sit down, cousin. Azruzimril came by today to tidy up and I can smell her mackerel soup on the stove. You should try it.”

So, there was some help, after all, but apparently, Mairen lived alone. He sank down in the comfortable chair she indicated. The weather was still fine, but the nights were beginning to cool. He wondered if he should start a fire, while she moved to the adjacent kitchen.

“Do you visit the Lord Balkumagân often?” he asked, rising up to his feet again. He felt as if standing on the deck of ship, wavering in this watery world of hers.

“His wife thinks that I am a bad influence on the daughters,” Mairen replied from the kitchen with a giggle and the sound of jostling crockery. “Although she is too polite to say it. But I do like the old scoundrel and the girls.”

Oromendil wondered if she had arranged to meet him there today specifically to avoid having him walk all the way through the fishermen’s quarter unguided, or lead by a judgemental servant.

Mairen called him to the kitchen. It was not what he expected, a continuation of the shrine to the sea and to books that the main room was. This kitchen was made for a mother of seven children, with its large table set against a wall of resplendent copper pots, the air warm and fragrant with spices and herbs, the wood panelling smooth with a patina of smoke.

He did not contain a small sound, close to a whistle. She turned to him, holding a bowl filled with rich soup. “Cosy, isn’t it?” she asked.

Unwittingly, he thought of her bedroom, imagining it a sensuous haven of draped silks and warm wools, rich colours punctuating linens of sea white. Embarrassed, he lowered his eyes.

”Can I be of any help?” he asked, grateful that he had found something to say.

“Yes, thank you. Please be a darling and fetch some wine from the cellar.”

He saw a small door to the side, and headed there.

When he returned, Mairen sat at the table with a smile on her face. She had lit candles, as dusk was falling. They ate in silence. The wine was exceptional. He wondered if it had come from Hyarnustar but he did not ask. This cousin, whom he barely knew, gave him the peace of long-time marriage. The fish soup was as fine as promised, and the bread was fresh and crusty. He sighed, as he finished his second serving. Mairen had already finished and watched him leisurely.

“I have fresh oranges,” she said. “A friend of mine brought them all the way from and some Nisimaldar tea all the way from Andunië.”

Oromendil watched her uncovering the basket she had carried before, wondering who the friend might be. A lover? And where would that lover be, while she dined alone with a man, family or not? It was none of his business, Oromendil chided himself. And sometimes a friend is just a friend.

He accepted the fruit, a rare luxury back home, even in a wealthy house such as his, and slowly peeled it, enjoying how the fragrant oil perfumed his hands. He savoured its bittersweetness while his eyes met hers again and again.

As she rose and walked past him, to clear the table and heat the water for the tea, he felt like touching her hand, caressing her fingers with his, kissing the pale skin of her wrist, but he did not. Not because they were cousins, or because it was improper in so many other ways. Not because he did not desire her. She was fascinating, apparently strong and calm, but full of mystery and a hint of tumult just below the surface.

He rose and headed to the main room, to busy himself with a fire. When she returned with a tray, he was sitting down, in the same curious state of satiation and excitement.

“The things my sister sent for you are in the package,” he said, as she poured the tea.

She sat opposite him and reached for the volume. She took out the letters first, glancing at Yávien’s miniscule writing, like a child tasting cake batter for a dollop of sweetness handed in advancement.

Then she examined the books, smiling to herself. She took some of the trinkets, then let her hands rest on her lap and smiled at him.

“Thank you, cousin. It was very sweet of you to go out of your way. Yávien adores you for obvious reason.”

Oromendil bowed his head slightly, both flattered that his sister and his cousin talked about him and irritated at their connection.

“Don’t be jealous,” Mairen playfully chided, as if reading his thoughts.

She sat in perfect stillness for a while watching the fire, before she picked her lute from the stand next to her chair. She idly fingered the strings, forming traces of melodies Oromendil faintly recognized. When she paused, for a sip of tea, he spoke.

“Why do you have such a large table in your kitchen?”

Mairen smiled and softly blew on her tea, although it was now warm.

Oromendil though she was not going to reply so long was the pause.

“People come and eat. I do not cook, of course. I am only good for poetry and music. I tried to learn, when I came out here, but then I met Azruzimril.”

Oromendil was a shepherd but not a fool and saw her evasiveness.

“Who comes?”

“The children, often, almost everyday, not that Azruzimril is teaching a few to read. Sometimes their mothers to talk or seek refuge when their husbands drink themselves into a stupor. You have not seen winter here. When the sea is rough, the men have to find other jobs. When they cannot, they drink. A few go to Orrostar, for lumbering, and their wives also come, out of loneliness. It’s calm here, the children do not get up to much mischief and the mothers can rest.”

Oromendil felt that she had not said it all, but his mind wandered elsewhere.

“Why were you not present at your brother's coronation?”

Mairen picked up the lute and started playing. Oromendil waited patiently, as she hummed a melody with the chords. He started feeling impatient, even though he knew that the kind of questions he asked were allowed between friends not two strangers as they were, regardless of the blood connecting them.

He rose and paced the room. Dark had fallen and he could feel a small draft coming from the last window.

“I should return now,” he said, looking outside at the waning moon rising over the crisp sea, casting a silver glow over the dark form of Tol Uinen. “Lord Balkumagân might be expecting me back soon.”

“You can stay, if you wish. For the night.”

Oromendil’s face grew hot and he was glad to be standing away from her. Was that simple hospitality or some other kind of offer? Mairen was hard to read. He both wanted to take her to her room and touch her naked flesh, feel her breasts under his fingers, her wetness on his tongue, as he wanted to stay there in that room, to sit and talk, to hear her playing and reading him a poem. 

“Yávien calls us, Azruzimril and me, and another friend or ours the Sisters of Mercy because we give shelter to those who seek it, normally in the name of Our Lady Uinen, but for you I would make an exception.”

There it was again, that piousness that felt unnatural. To praise Eru in the holy days and maybe to invoke his name in a time of need, Oromendil could understand, but this heavy presence of Uinen in Mairen’s life was unsettling. He ambled back to the fire and sat, now more in possession of himself.

“Men too?” he asked, knowing that Mairen would judge him for that. Or perhaps he was judging himself. He wondered if Yávien was so hospitable too, when she stayed with Mairen in her travels.

Mairen smiled. “Do you know the song I was playing just now?” she asked.

Oromendil was caught off-guard. “Yes,” he testily replied. “It is about a girl who falls in love with a man who does not love her and throws herself off a cliff. Stupid thing, it is, not to keep on living.”

“I agree,” Mairen said.

Oromendil looked at her, took in her face, not beautiful but attractive, not pretty but seductive. He understood what she was telling him, that she had chosen life, this very odd and colourful life here, away from her family and her childhood home. Who was he, the man who had not loved this woman? And why had she needed so much distance?

Mairen started another tune, but Oromendil found no clue in it. His thoughts turned and turned.

“Please read me one of your poems,” he asked at length.

Mairen rose and took the tray to the kitchen. When she returned, she cleared her throat and started declaiming from heart, standing up in front of him but not quite meeting his eyes.

All alone in a foreign land,  
I am twice as homesick on this day  
When brothers carry dogwood up the mountain,  
Each of them a branch-and my branch missing.

She paused for a minute before speaking again. “This was written when the youngest of three motherless boys spent a winter here in my kitchen while his two older brothers went to the hills to gather wood for sale. The family had enough to eat, that winter, but frostbite took a finger from one of the boys.”

Mairen sat back down. Oromendil watched her pouring them something amber and thick, trying to think.

“Cinnamon liqueur,” she said, picking up her small glass. “Good for many ailments, none of which I suffer from.”

He smiled at the unexpected humour and drank with her.

He was not too surprised that her poetry was not about lost love. He often read Yávien’s poems about nature, although he knew she did not show him all of her work. He understood that poetry, as they practised it, was neither the stuff of epic legend, nor the vessel for commonplace feelings.

Yet, there was something. A tale about brothers, following a song about unrequited love, following a question about her brother. Oromendil was started by his own thoughts.

“Elendil...” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said.

Oromendil gasped, against his will.

“You were quite smart as a little boy, cousin, and Yávien tells me great things about your sensibility.”

“I should thank you,” he said, “but you speak of my sister as of a lover.”

“Sometimes we are that too, but not often. My desires run toward the male form. I shock you? I should not ask.”

Oromendil reached for the bottle and poured another serving, although the liqueur was far too sweet for his taste.

“I knew about my sister, of course,” he said. “Sometimes her poems – and her eyes – betray her.”

Mairen waited.

“But Elendil?”

“You were too little to remember and did not visit often, but Elendil was like a vala to me when I was growing up. Our parents often joked that they would not be able to find me a groom with such qualities as to compete with my brother. As I blossomed as a girl, the warm, brotherly affection and pride turned into a feeling of possession, confusion...”

“Why are you telling me this?” Oromendil cut.

“You asked.”

“You could have entirely avoided these revelations,” Oromendil parried.

“I could. But I like you. You see things, you think. And I feel that in some way you are like Yávien and myself – wounded.”

“Yávien is not wounded.”

“She does not life her truth, her entire truth. She travels, she writes, but she can never show to the world whom she really loves.”

Oromendil bit his lip. He wanted to ask Mairen for something stronger to drink, or leave the house and venture into the maze of streets, hoping that the chill would clear his thoughts.

“Come cousin,” Mairen said, standing up. “The evening is lovely, come watch Tol Uinen from the window.” 

He followed her. 

“One day, I hope that someone will build a shrine to Our Lady on the island,” she said. “The fishermen often talk about it, and they leave offerings there when the catch is particularly good.”

“I do not understand this cult,” Oromendil said.

“You do not have to. Accept it, it is not impure or evil, just our custom.”

“Our?”

“Our. This is my home now.”

“Is it not lonely?” Oromendil asked.

“Lonelier than watching the man you love with no hope of ever falling into his arms and kissing his lips? Feeling guilt always, wondering at every step who read your feelings? Here I have friends, I have children, I have lovers, when I feel like that kind of love.”

Oromendil turned to face her and touched her elbow. Mairen smiled, lowering her eyes with unexpected coyness.

“That would also be incest,” she warned with a hint of humour.

Oromendil let his hand fall to his side, but lifted it right after, touching her again.

“What is my wound?” he asked. “Are you going to heal me?”

Mairen looked up to him, to the handsome face, the dark hair and grey eyes of the family softened with a tinge of gold from his mother. “No…”

He felt like kissing her, but instead looked into her eyes for a long time.

“Can you give me solace, then?”

“If that is your desire...”

“Is it yours?”

Mairen’s lips moved in a silent ‘yes.’

Her mouth tasted of cinnamon and her hair smelled of cloves. He buried his face in them as he loosened the ties of her dress. Kissing him, she lead him to her room, lit only by the faint light of the moon. It felt as if had made love to her many times before, even as he touched her bare skin for the first time.

As he climbed into her bed, settling between her open legs, he wondered again at the strange magic of this place, at the intensity of this woman. Remembering his manners, he tried to please her, even thought he yearned to enter her deeply. 

When he finally did so, she said his name aloud. Kneeling between her legs, he entered her again and again, as she touched herself and arched beneath him. When she was done, she pushed him away gently and guided him onto his back. He lay there as she rode him hard, as she whispered her desire, things so sweet and dirty. He touched her breasts, touched her between her thighs, holding back as he could until both were ready.

They made love once more that night. By morning he carefully left the bed and gathered his clothes. She woke before he reached the door.

“Eat something before you go,” she said. The sun made her more beautiful than the night before. He knelt by the bed and kissed her. Although he longed to make love to her again, he understood that it was time to go. Staying would be delightful but, knowing himself, he would mistake what was offered with what he so desperately had longed for, elsewhere.

He dressed in silence, under her gaze, wondering if the whole thing had been orchestrated by Yávien. It would not be unlike his sister but he was more thankful than angry. As promised, he was not healed, but felt lighter, for now. On the way home he would think, think deeply, make the beginnings of a change. Perhaps he’d return, perhaps he would finally tell his father that he was meant to live in the wilderness, hunting, and that the stead should go to Axantur, who was the real shepherd of the family. 

As for Axantur’s wife, perhaps he could now forget that one kiss, stolen on the eve of her wedding and how hurt her eyes had looked as he had walked away from her. Perhaps he could even forget how her children bore his brother’s face. Perhaps.

Finis  
October 2017

**Author's Note:**

> Rhapsody asked for Hallelujah or Suzanne. This is obviously inspired by the latter, but it also courts Sisters of Mercy and Chelsea Hotel. It was not meant to be porny, but rather like Leonard Cohen’s encounter with Suzanne Verdal, more in his head than in her bed, but well, fics have their own ways...
> 
> The poem is “On The Mountain Holiday Thinking of My Brothers In Shandong” by Wang Wei.  
> The OCs names are from https://realelvish.net/ (Balkumagân = Ship maker, Azruzimril = Sea jewel).


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